


Peccavi (I Have Sinned)

by Shi_koi



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: M/M, Other, Slashy, caveat lector, consensual torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shi_koi/pseuds/Shi_koi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What can one do when one carries purgatory beneath their skin?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peccavi (I Have Sinned)

*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*  
(¯`·._.·(¯`·._.·(¯`·._.· ρёḉḉαṽḯ ·._.·´¯)·._.·´¯)·._.·´¯)  
*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*

  
  
Loki breathes in deeply, lips parting to allow more air to flow into his lungs. He cannot see, his eyes are covered in soft material. He knows this ritual, it is as familiar to him as his own skin, (even when it's not).  
  
He can tell by the warm stillness of the air against his naked body that he's indoors, and from the lack of light creeping in under his blindfold, Loki guesses that either the lights are dimmed, or off, in which case it's likely he's alone.  
  
Not that it really matters either way.  
  
A tug at his arms proves his other theories. Loki can tell he's suspended in the air by the lack of pressure against the soles of his feet and the slight pull at his arms and shoulders. His arms are pulled out to the sides, held taut by something softer than silk and lighter than air. He knows what it is, because he enchanted the ribbon himself. He knows if he rolls his shoulders the right way and breathes in deeply he'll be able to feel a slight band around his chest and shoulders, but he doesn't want to. He likes feeling like he's floating in mid-air.  
  
A door opens, then, after a moment, closes with a quiet click.  
  
“Is it time then?” Loki asks, his voice low and tentative.  
  
“Yes,” the other responds, and the voice is painfully familiar to the fallen god.  
  
The other casts faint whispers of steps as he moves, and Loki tracks him, his breath hitching when the other stops behind Loki's back.  
  
“Are you ready brother?” the other asks, and waits, as always, for Loki's curt nod.  
  
Long fingers curl around Loki's left ankle, and he can feel the enchanted ribbon curl around it, over sensitive skin, sliding up until his thigh is covered and his ankle is pulled up so that flesh meets flesh. He breathes out and waits for the same touch on his other ankle. He doesn't have to wait long.  
  
A familiar sense of vulnerability washes over him as his body is bound and arranged, and Loki closes his eyes tightly under his blindfold. A hand rests against his chest, over his rapidly beating heart, and Loki releases a painfully tight breath.  
  
“You know why we are here brother?”  
  
The hand drops, and Loki feels the loss of contact keenly.  
  
“Yes,” Loki whispers.  
  
“Then tell me, brother, why we are here,” the voice commands, and Loki closes his eyes beneath the fabric blinding him.  
  
He licks his dry lips and draws in a deep breath before speaking. “I fought my brother and his allies.”  
  
“Continue...”  
  
Loki feels shaky, as always. This part, the recitation of his sins, is always the hardest. “Thor, I fought Thor, and in the process I put one-hundred and twenty-seven innocent humans in the hospital with grave injuries...and...and I almost broke one of his friends beyond repair.”  
  
“Which friend?” the voice asks again, sharply.  
  
“The one in the iron armor. I caused excess pain and injury to plague him.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because...” Loki stutters to a halt now. He knows he must release his sins, and that he cannot be absolved until he admits to them fully, but it hurts, it hurts him so far inside, in the place that always saw his own lack of worth.  
  
“Because...?”  
  
“Because I was angry. Because I saw my brother was happy, even though he and his allies were wounded in a battle I caused. I lashed out and hurt them all beyond any need.”  
  
“Now, tell me why we are here,” the other commands again.  
  
“We are here because we agreed on the number of times I could attack my brother. We understand that we are a monster, but we cannot be monstrous. I broke the agreement, the quota allotted to me, again.” There's a hitch in Loki's breath as he speaks, but he knows he will receive no mercy (doesn't deserve mercy, there should be no mercy for a monster like him).  
  
“Tell me again...what is the penalty for your sins?” the other speaks softly this time, and Loki shudders.  
  
A moment passes, then another, until a handful of minutes pass. Then, softly, like a sigh, Loki speaks. “I must bear witness to my sins and wear the marks of penance on my skin. I must bleed because I bled others, I must bear pain, as I have caused it.”  
  
“Yes.” The answer comes with great finality, and Loki sags in his ties, swaying slightly in the air. “Choose the method of your penance,” the other orders.  
  
Loki's throat closes and he shudders. “The leather flail,” he answers eventually.  
  
“Very well.”  
  
The whisper of soft soles against the floor is his only warning as the other man walks away and pauses, before returning a few moments later.  
  
“Count, brother.”  
  
The first strike is the worst, and even though Loki knows how bad it will hurt, the moment of impact pulls a pained cry from him. Still, he counts, and waits. The second strike hits, then a third, then a fourth, until Loki is sobbing out every count and his back is a mass of fire and lava boils in his veins.  
  
He knows he could simply click his fingers and make it all go away, or he could just speak, and ask the torture to stop – but he doesn't.  
  
He knows why he does this, why he allows himself, nay, encourages himself to pay penance for his misdeeds instead of simply stopping them. He feels unwelcome in his own skin, betrayed by the blood within his veins, and he has to fight, he has to prove himself a worthy man, God, fighter. He has to prove he is more than the circumstance of his birth.  
  
He just cannot bear to let anyone know how much of a monster he feels he is, and this is the only time he can wash away his lies and replace them with a painful, fragile truth, a truth marked into his skin, and written in blood.  
  
Eventually, finally, the blows stop, cease, and there is nothing but the sound of his blood dripping to the floor and the gasps of breath escaping from his lips.  
  
Loki floats in the air, tethered by the ribbon bound to his skin, unaware of everything except the pain. There are no lies, no responsibilities, just him, and the truth, and the agony of freedom.  
  
The kiss, when it comes, is gentle, soft, the barest pressure of touch. Loki parts his lips with a sob, and begs with his body, desperately straining his neck to follow the movement of the other, to keep the contact.  
  
“Hush brother, you did well,” the other says in a broken whisper.  
  
“Please...”  
  
There's a feathery touch against his thighs and the ribbon slips away like water. His legs are held and carefully straightened, and he can feel himself be lowered until his toes, then his feet are flat against the cold stone floor.  
  
The other kneels in front of him and massages the blood back into his limbs, and the painful prick of pins and needles flares up before subsiding under the other's masterful touch.  
  
“Please...” Loki begs again, half wondering what it is he's asking for.  
  
The hands on his legs pause before trailing upwards, over hard thighs, and further up to map and follow every dip and crease and muscle until they finally pause at Loki’s neck and only one continues to brush the hair hanging down in front of Loki's face away.  
  
When soft lips meet his – finally – Loki can't help but whimper.  
  
“Shhh...” the other whispers, and Loki shivers.  
  
The other man walks away, and Loki shakes until the man returns. He can hear the tinkle of water drops and he holds his breath as a cloth, soft, smooth, wet, touches the skin at the nape of his neck and slowly, oh-so slowly, works it's way down, wiping away the blood.  
  
The other works steadily, stopping only to rinse and squeeze the cloth out, and by the time he's finished, Loki's head feels cleaner, clearer and more focussed. A moment later there's the sound of a bottle being uncorked, and Loki clenches his jaw in preparation.  
  
It's barely enough.  
  
The scent of something sharp and acrid fills the room, and when the liquid is poured over his back, Loki screams. He can feel his skin close, and knows the marks will fade within an hour, but it hurts, it hurts more than the whipping had.  
  
“Shhh brother, shhhh, you are doing well, very well.”  
  
He can't help it, Loki takes in one more breath, then blacks out.  
  
When he wakes, he's in his own bed, but his blindfold is still on, and he's still naked. There's a light touch, finger, Loki thinks, stroking his back, tracing the raised welts that the potion had created from his split and bleeding skin.  
  
Loki sighs.  
  
“You are awake then?” the other asks.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Fingers trace the blindfold, and Loki raises his head in implicit permission. The fabric falls away after a second, and Loki blinks a few times to allow his eyes to adjust.  
  
When the room clears, he faces the other man, staring at his own image.  
  
“How do you feel?” he asks himself.  
  
“Clean,” he answers.  
  
The other him nods and fades with a sigh as the magic is released.  
  
Loki rolls over and curls into his blankets, his mind clear for once, and his burden temporarily removed from his shoulders. He knows it will not last long, and he will have to pay penance again at some point in the future, but for now he closes his eyes and sleeps.   
  
  


*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*  
(¯`·._.·(¯`·._.·(¯`·._.· ёйd ·._.·´¯)·._.·´¯)·._.·´¯)  
*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*-,._.,-*~'`^`'~*

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tictactales @ livejournal.  
> A/N: Weapon, kink, wildcard: Flail, suspension, quota. (I ran away from the thought of suspension with hooks, so this is has no metal hooks at all. --shudder-- I chose a leather flail, not a metal morning-star type.)  
> Also, can I just say that this is one of the most difficult things I have ever written? Because it was. It was also a helluva lot of fun, it almost wrote itself, it was all there in my head, like a movie, it was just incredibly challenging putting what I saw playing out in my head on to paper.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing real.


End file.
